Redemption

by Laurel Dewey

  Jane leaned closer to Carl. “What was the upshot?”

  “I’m not sure. I found that one article and the fact that she’s in the system.”

  Jane tried to sort it all out and fight off an oncoming headache. “Five years later, her granddaughter’s killed.”

  “What are you thinking?” Carl asked confidentially.

  Jane said the first thing that came to mind. “Revenge....”

  “The granddaughter was a revenge kill? By who?”

  Kit opened the bathroom door, dressed in a pair of black pants and a blood-red, knit tunic. “Oh, Carl, the coffee smells divine!”

  Thirty minutes later, Jane and Carl packed the last bags into the trunk of the Mustang. Kit settled into the front seat as Carl sidled closer to Jane.

  “Remember, cousin,” Carl said in confidence, “there are no accidents. Just a series of non sequitur events that all serve to solve the greater puzzle in the end.”

  Jane took a drag off her cigarette. “Sounds very Buddhist,” she said warily.

  Carl smiled as he embraced Jane with a hearty hug. He spoke in confidence to Jane. “Everybody in this world has something to hide, cousin. Everybody.” Jane considered Carl’s portentous remark. “I’ll light a stick of incense and ask that you be protected on your journey.”

  “Throw a penny in the pond and a dash of salt over your shoulder, too,” Jane said, heading to the driver’s seat and tossing the cigarette into the dirt.

  “Will do!” Carl said brightly. He waved to Kit. “Take care of yourselves!”

  As they drove away, Jane looked in the rearview mirror. Carl’s hands were clasped in a prayer pose and pointed toward the car.

  Jane figured it would take a little over eight hours to get to Oakhurst. Was it worth it to speed to a destination that might end up being a subterfuge? If she was being played by Kit, was it wiser for Jane to confront her now or hold back and wait to discover Kit’s true purpose? But the question that spun endlessly in Jane’s head as they neared Oakhurst was whether she was traveling with a woman who had more nefarious motives planned and was covertly using Jane to execute a criminal plan. The questions layered one on top of the other with no answers.

  Jane turned on the radio so she could hear something else besides the sound of her own thoughts. She slowed the Mustang as she curved down the two-lane road that led into Oakhurst. It was the top of the hour and the local news station’s headlining story only added to her growing trepidation.

  There had been an arrest in the kidnapping of Charlotte Walker.

  And the perp’s name was not Lou Peters.

  CHAPTER 17

  The suspect’s name was Trace Fagin. He was a married, thirty-eight-year-old father of two children from South Dakota. As was typical, the media referred to him as a “person of interest,” which led Jane to believe they had some physical evidence that linked Fagin to Charlotte Walker. Immediately, Jane flashed on Charlotte’s red leather jacket. Kit and Jane listened intently to the sheriff’s voice on the radio as he gave the usual vague replies to reporters’ questions, prefaced by the words, “At this time....”

  “At this time, we can report that Mr. Fagin’s vehicle has been impounded.”

  “At this time, Mr. Fagin is considered a person of interest and is cooperating with both detectives and the FBI.”

  “At this time, we are still considering this case open, but are very interested in any information Mr. Fagin may have regarding Charlotte Walker.”

  “So as not to jeopardize our case, at this time, we are not releasing whether we found any physical evidence that links Mr. Fagin to Charlotte Walker.”

  To Jane, it was your basic press conference—just enough information to appease the public, but not enough for an intelligent person to garner any use able data to determine Fagin’s guilt or innocence.

  “He didn’t do it,” Kit announced.

  “That remains to be seen,” Jane replied, turning off the radio and searching for a motel with a vacancy sign. A soft rain began to fall onto the water-swept streets.

  “He didn’t do it, Jane!”

  “Maybe he did. Maybe Lou is absolutely innocent.” There was a stinging tenor to Jane’s voice as she kept her eyes focused on finding a motel along the main drag. Her suspicion was more firmly planted upon Kit Clark and her past nefarious dealings. Carl’s unsettling disclosure of Kit’s arrest three decades ago in relation to a shoe factory bombing that killed four people was beginning to seriously rankle Jane. The pervading thought that Kit was using her to instigate some kind of criminal objective was becoming more possible in Jane’s mind. Perhaps Kit was bent on revenge for Ashlee’s murder and this trip was a ploy for Jane to lead her right to Lou so Kit could kill him. She was dying of cancer and would never make it to trial for the murder. All that talk about forgiveness and compassion for Lou? Well, that was just New Age deception, as far as Jane was concerned.

  “Look,” Kit said with an irritated edge, “if the police and FBI are going to waste time with this Fagin guy, that just gives Lou more freedom to do whatever he wants with Charlotte and then kill her as he sees fit. If patterns serve, I feel that Charlotte must be found before January 5.”

  “Day twelve,” Jane said offhandedly.

  “So, you counted, too? That must mean you feel a similar urgency.”

  “No, it just means I counted days. And frankly, it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kit said in disbelief. “He killed my fourteen-year-old granddaughter on day fourteen of her capture! Patterns, Jane! Patterns!”

  “A pattern must be repeated at least once for it to count.”

  “I see. So, we wait until day twelve when Charlotte is found dead and then we can say, ‘Ah, look. A pattern.’”

  “I’ll keep January 5 in mind,” Jane said, building an emotional wall against Kit. The rain fell harder, creating puddles of neon reflections from the stores and restaurants.

  Kit observed Jane carefully. “Something is different about you.”

  “Nothing’s different.”

  Kit leaned closer to Jane. “Why are you lying to me?”

  Jane came to a stoplight and turned to Kit, staring at her straight on. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, Kit. I’ve had a few things go wrong for me in the last twenty hours or so. If I’m coming off as deceitful...well, I guess that’s your perception. Or maybe... projection.” Jane turned back to the road, letting that little gem sink in.

  “Projection?” Kit asked bemused. “Are you saying that I’m being untruthful with you? Jane, I’ve told you everything that’s necessary for you to solve this case!”

  The words “everything that’s necessary” weren’t lost on Jane’s cynical ears. She’d heard the same typical verbal dance from hundreds of perps over the years. They always answered questions with carefully placed words so as not to perjure themselves. The light turned green. Just as she passed The Bonanza Cabins, she saw the neon red NO VACANCY light change to VACANCY. Making a quick U-turn, Jane gunned the Mustang into the empty Bonanza parking lot. Driving to the front office, she parked the car in an area with a sign that read THE HITCHING POST. Jane let out a low groan, realizing she was about to enter not just a bad Western kitsch motel, but kitsch based on a television show that bowed off the air in the early 1970’s. Not a good sign, Jane mused as she braced herself against the pelting rain and followed Kit into the front office.

  The melodic sound of Roy Rogers singing “Happy Trails to You” played over the tinny front office speakers. It was another cheesy attempt to embrace the Bonanza theme. A balding, fullbellied man in his late forties stood at the front desk, eyes focused intently on a small TV screen that sat on a nearby shelf. “Hey, Marie!” the man yelled behind his shoulder. “I think I just saw the motel on the TV!”

  “Use the TiVo and hit the pause button to be sure!” Marie yelled back.

  “Hello,” Kit interjected.

  The guy looked up as if he were surprised to see the two
women standing in his front office. His shirt proudly displayed a tag that read, HOWDY! I’M BARRY! He set down the remote control and turned on the charm. “Howdy!” he said with a big grin.

  Jane hovered in the background, glancing over the racks of tourist brochures. The place smelled musty and old to her, like a dusty, antebellum attic.

  “I see you have a vacancy,” Kit asked in her most cordial voice.

  “We just finished cleanin’ the cabin.” His eyes wandered over to Jane. “The crew from CBS vacated it less than an hour ago. They were here with Lesley Stahl to interview that girl from the barbeque place who saw Charlotte get into that guy’s car. The interview’s gonna be on TV tonight!” Barry yelled back to Marie. “What’s her name again, Marie?”

  “The chunky girl?” Marie hollered back.

  “Yeah! Barbeque girl?”

  “Leann Hamilton!”

  “Leann Hamilton,” Barry repeated.

  “Did you get the TiVo to work?” Marie bellowed from the other room.

  “In a second. We got customers!” Barry bellowed back.

  “What network?” Marie screeched.

  “Don’t know yet!” Barry looked at Kit. “What network are you two with?”

  “We’re not with any network,” Kit said. “Just two travelers looking for a place to rest our weary bones for a week or so.”

  Barry straightened up, looking unconvinced. “Christmas is over and last time I looked, Oakhurst ain’t a destination spot for New Year’s Eve festivities. Weather sucks outside and Yosemite is not exactly spectacular this time of year.” Barry leaned across the counter. “This town is crawlin’ with TV folks! It’s like Fourth of July for us! Come on! You can tell me what network you’re with. I promise I won’t tell a soul!”

  Jane looked at Barry. His demeanor was as sincere as an ex-con working the Tilt-A-Whirl carnival ride just so he could pick up underage girls.

  Barry stared at Jane. “I know you’re somebody. I’ve seen you on TV—”

  Kit quickly laughed a hearty laugh and pointed at Jane. “Melody? My daughter?” Kit turned to Jane. “Sweetheart, isn’t that something? He thinks he’s seen you on television!” She turned back to Barry, still chuckling. “I just wish my Melody was a TV star. Wouldn’t that be special?”

  Jane wondered when her fifteen minutes of Larry King fame was going to end. Then she thought, Melody? God help her.

  “So, you have a vacancy?” Kit said, desperately trying to change the subject.

  “Yeah,” Barry checked the register. “Hop Sing!”

  “Excuse me?” Kit asked.

  “The Hop Sing cabin.”

  “Hop Sing?” Kit repeated, not understanding.

  Jane sidled next to Kit. “He was the Chinese cook on the Ponderosa,” Jane said, feeling the walls of this cheesy, TV Westernthemed motel closing in on her. Kit still didn’t get it. “I’ll explain later,” Jane said, taking a gander at the rate card. The handful of cabins were named accordingly: Ben Cartwright, Little Joe, Hoss.... “So, it’s $35 a night—”

  “Ah, well, no,” Barry said, sliding the stack of rate cards off to the side. “Normally, that’s our winter rate. But, due to the current happening in town, we had to upgrade the cabins with satellite TV dish systems, TiVo, and high speed Internet for the press. So, we needed to raise our rates accordingly.”

  “And that would be?” Jane asked with a leery tone.

  “$125 a night,” Barry said without flinching.

  “That’s highway robbery!” Jane declared. “And your parking lot is empty.”

  “That’s because all the TV people are down at the sheriff’s office. He just finished a news conference about nabbing that Tad... Tom....” Barry spoke over his shoulder. “Marie! What’s the name of that guy they picked up?”

  “Trace. Trace Fagin!” Marie quickly yelled back.

  “Trace Fagin,” Barry repeated as if his wife hadn’t prompted him. He leaned across the counter. “News is still fresh of course, but I heard a rumor that Alan from the gas station up on Highway 41 saw the cops nail this Fagin fellow right on the highway when he was takin’ a piss.” Barry arched his eyebrows. “Takin’ a piss....” he repeated with an air of denunciation. In Barry’s mind, Fagin might as well have been caught with a shovel in his hand burying Charlotte’s body.

  Jane pocketed one of the Cabins’ business cards. “Back to the room. We’ll be here for a week or so. How about a weekly rate?”

  “No can do,” Barry replied quickly. “And I advise you to lock in that price now. No tellin’ how high our rates are gonna go when they find Charlotte. If all goes well, I might be able to build me another cabin. Hey, we treat you well here! You can mail letters here, have faxes sent to our front office, and there’s a coffee maker in your cabin!”

  “In the cabin?” Jane said with thick mockery. “Well, that explains the inflated price. I bet if we could upgrade to the Ben Cartwright suite, we’d get brand-new soap!”

  “Honey, we’re the only game in town, and there will be somebody walkin’ through that door any second willin’ to lay out cold cash for a room close to the action.”

  Jane was disgusted with Barry. This guy was worse than an ex-con at a carnival.

  “We’ll take it!” Kit interrupted.

  “Your mama’s a smart lady!” Barry retorted, handing Kit a registration form.

  “Is there a place to eat nearby?” Kit asked as she wrote down her information.

  “Sure. Lots of places. But your best bet for good food and gettin’ a flavor for the whole event is The Circle 9 Diner half a mile down Main, then turn left on Buena Street.” Barry made a point to pronounce “Buena” as “Boo-na,” a fact that seemed curious to Jane. “It’s right across from the Stop ’n’ Save.” Barry leaned closer to Kit, speaking in a pseudo-confidential manner. “The Circle 9’s where Sheriff Golden and his deputies hang out in the back booths. Call it Charlotte Central.” Barry winked. It was all Jane could do to not pound his head into the desk.

  “Wonderful,” Kit said, “Go down Main and turn on Buena—”

  “Boo-na,” Barry corrected. “Not Bwaa-na. Us locals have to always tell the tourists how to say the name of that street the right way.” Barry slid two room keys toward Kit.

  “I bet that gets so old for you, Barry,” Jane said with a sarcastic tenor.

  “Goes with the territory, little lady,” Barry replied, blissfully unaware of Jane’s derision. Jane and Kit headed for the door. “Oh, another little tip, Mrs... .” Barry checked the name on the registration, “Clark. You’ll want to avoid the bottleneck of traffic around the grammar school where the cops have set up their command post, and also the area around Jenny’s Hair Salon across from the KFC.”

  “Jenny’s Hair Salon?” Kit asked.

  “Jenny Walker. Charlotte’s mama,” Barry advised. “It’s not like Jenny’s there. She’s holed up all day long at the house with that Clinton fella.”

  “Clinton Fredericks,” Jane said to herself.

  “Yeah, that’s him! Clinton and Jenny do a live remote every night for all the TV stations from the front lawn of the Walker house.”

  “Well, Barry,” Kit said with her most adulating smile, “you truly are a cornucopia of information!”

  Barry checked the time. “If you get goin’, you might be able to catch tonight’s live TV update. But I warn you two, there are media trucks up and down that street.”

  “Where does the Walker family live?” Kit asked.

  “Oh, it’s just Charlotte and her mama. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Daddy Walker.” Kit stole a glance at Jane, who gave her an “I told you so,” look. “To get there, go up Main Street, turn left on Spring, and then right on Raven Court.”

  Jane and Kit headed to the car. The rain slowed to a constant mist. As Jane backed out of the parking lot, she quietly repeated the name of the street. “Raven....” This was just too weird.

  Raven Court was packed with media trucks and curious people gathered on
the rain-slicked sidewalks. Jane crawled down the street in the Mustang, peering out at the barrage of satellite trucks, vans, and the occasional motorcycle cop whose job it was to maintain order amid the chaos.

  “What a clusterfuck,” Jane mumbled under her breath.

  “That’s gotta be the house up there,” Kit said, pointing to a house on the right side of the street that was lit up like a football stadium.

  There was barely enough room for Jane to maneuver the Mustang around the logjam of traffic that began forming three houses down from the Walker’s modest home. The closer Jane got to the Walker’s house, the more yellow ribbons she could see circling the oak trees along the sidewalk. Huge, hand-painted signs hung from the branches that read WE LOVE YOU CHARLOTTE! and BRING OUR ANGEL BACK TO US! Pockets of women and children stood in small circles near the Walker’s house, holding candles and praying. Another band of women stood in the soft rain singing “Amazing Grace.” It struck Jane that the whole thing looked like a sorrowful pageant; a tableau of tears that reeked of misplaced self-indulgence in the name of misery. Jane’s cynical mind questioned whether these people felt a legitimate need to show up on the Walker’s front lawn and mourn little Charlotte’s kidnapping or whether they just knew when Clinton and Jenny Walker were scheduled to do their regular live evening update for the TV cameras and timed their appearance accordingly.

  “Is that him?” Kit asked Jane, pointing toward the Walker’s front lawn.

  Jane peered into the high-intensity lights. “Yeah, that’s the SOB,” she replied. Sitting in a canvas chair, getting his trademark tangled blond locks combed, was Clinton Fredericks.

  “Two minutes, Clinton!” a voice called out from behind the camera.

  Jane shifted her focus to Jenny Walker, who sat in another canvas chair while a production assistant clipped a small microphone on her coat lapel. Another production assistant stood behind her, holding an umbrella over her head as the wind whipped up momentarily, sending a sudden surge of rain over the area. Jenny looked like a giant marshmallow to Jane. Dressed in an oversized white down coat, she appeared even plumper in person than she did in Charlotte’s now-infamous birthday video. There was no mistaking the pained expression on her face, though. This was a woman who was deeply suffering. Clinton quickly joined Jenny in the chair next to her and clipped on his microphone.